


And Tomorrow Won't Remind Me of Today

by Rehearsal_Dweller



Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Amnesia AU, Gen, Newsies Quarantine Project
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:14:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23520667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehearsal_Dweller/pseuds/Rehearsal_Dweller
Summary: “Davey?” Jack echoes. Feels like all he can do right now. “Who’s Davey? Where’s Crutchie?”
Relationships: Crutchie & Jack Kelly, David Jacobs & Jack Kelly, Racetrack Higgins & Jack Kelly
Comments: 10
Kudos: 83





	And Tomorrow Won't Remind Me of Today

**Author's Note:**

> AU where Jack wakes up with amnesia the morning after Act I ends.  
> Woooooo!

Jack wakes up groggy. He can tell he was beaten to hell yesterday, feels that in every movement, but he doesn’t remember it at all. That’s not a great sign.

He hasn’t opened his eyes yet; he’s kind of dreading it. He knows from experience that even the early morning sunlight is going to kill him. Instead he listens, trying to gauge how early it is by Crutchie’s movement.

Only he doesn’t hear Crutchie at all.

There’s no sound of movement nearby, and Crutchie is a restless sleeper. He can’t even hear Crutchie breathing.

_That_ is enough to push Jack through his reluctance to open his eyes. He’s a light sleeper – too light a sleeper, most nights – and he would’ve heard Crutchie get up and leave. Jack _always_ hears when Crutchie gets up early. And he usually needs at least a spot if not some help to get down the ladder safely. Jack sits up, opening his eyes and looking around.

It looks like Crutchie never even came up here last night. His usual sleep spot is untouched.

That’s not on its own something to worry about; sometimes he’s not up to the climb. Still, with how banged up Jack is right now he’ll feel better once he knows where Crutchie is.

He makes his way down from the roof, crawling in the window from the fire escape.

“Jack!” someone says, and it takes him a sluggish minute to identify who it is.

“Finch, you seen Crutchie?” he asks.

“Jack,” Finch says, and he’s suddenly very close. “Crutchie’s gone, remember? They took him after the riot.”

“Riot?” Jack repeats. “What do you – Crutchie’s _gone_?”

Finch looks nervous and more than a little bit concerned. And, as he’s starting to clarify in Jack’s vision a little, _also_ beat to high heaven.

“The fuck happened yesterday, Finch?” Jack pushes.

“I, uh, I don’t think I oughta be the one tellin’ you,” Finch says, shifting back. Jack wants to argue, because he’s dying for answers and Finch is being cryptic for no good reason, but Finch shouts over his shoulder. “’Ey, Racer! Jack’s back! And he – you’re gonna wanna talk to ‘im!”

In an instant, Race is there. He pulls Jack into the tightest hug he’s ever given him. “Fuck, Jack, we was so worried about you. Davey’s been –“

“Davey?” Jack echoes. Feels like all he can do right now. “Who’s Davey? Where’s Crutchie?”

Race blanches. “Shit, Finch. Little warning?”

“What was I s’posed to say, man?” Finch says, shrinking away. “He’s real out of it.”

“Get Davey, should be on ‘is way to distribution by now. An’ flag down Kath, if you see ‘er, but don’t go lookin’.”

“On it.”

Jack can’t stand the way they’re talking over his head, like he’s not even there. But he also kind of can’t stand, full stop. He sways, only staying on his feet because Race hasn’t let him go.

“Shit, okay,” Race says. He pulls Jack further into the room, guiding him to sit on a lower bunk. “Jack, what do you remember?”

“Not why it hurts to move, and breathe, and exist, if that’s what’chr askin’,” Jack says through his teeth. Now he’s sat down again he’s much more aware of the bruising around his middle. Bending like this is really uncomfortable.

“What, uh, what day is it?”

“What kinda question – Monday.”

“Fuck, okay. Okay.” Race is pacing. He’s fussing with the hem of his untucked shirt with one hand; the other is buried in his hair. “And you don’t know what happened yesterday?”

“No.”

“Okay,” Race says again. Jack reaches for him, just tapping his arm as he goes by. He’s said _okay_ about a hundred times, which is generally a pretty strong indicator that nothing at all is okay.

“What happened, Race?”

“It’s Thursday, Jack. Tuesday, Pulitzer upped the price of papes for newsies which fuckin’ sucked, so you decided we wasn’t gonna take it, and Davey said that’s a strike so you said we was goin’ on strike so Davey said we had’ta be a union to strike so we decided we’s a union, and then we was doin’ alright yesterday, strikin’ officially an’ all, only they called in some strikebreakers and the bulls and Snyder got Crutchie and you ran off and we thought you was gone and –“

“Slow down.” Jack says, trying to process. “Crutchie’s in the Refuge?”

“Crutchie’s in the Refuge,” Race confirms. “I think he’s hurt pretty bad.”

“And I started a strike?”

“You started a strike.”

“Who the fuck is Davey?”

Race lets out a low whistle. “Center’a your goddamn orbit for a minute there. You must’a been hit real hard, Jackie boy. He’s a new kid, smart as all hell, an’ you latched onto him like that.” He snaps his fingers, then winces. “Fuck, that hurt. Bad idea.”

“Crutchie’s in the Refuge,” Jack repeats again, more to himself than for Race’s sake. “An’ I’m responsible?”

“It ain’t like that, Jack,” Race says. He drops to his knees on the floor in front of Jack, looking up at him. He’s got a huge bruise spreading across his cheek, just below his eye. He looks terrified. “It ain’t like that at all. We voted. We all wanted to do this. We just – we got beat. We got beat way worse than we ever thought we were gonna.”

“Race, please tell me that this is all some sick joke,” a new voice says. Race is on his feet again so fast Jack can barely watch him move, it makes him dizzy.

“He don’t remember anything, Davey.” Race sweeps his hands through his hair again. “Not the riot, not the strike. Not even, uh, you.”

The newcomer is a lanky boy in his late teens, with dark brown hair spilling out of his slightly askew cap. He looks just as beaten up as Race and Finch do, just as much as Jack feels, but he’s not carrying it like he’s felt this pain before. Every movement seems measured. There’s a bruise on his forearm, revealed by rolled up sleeves, that looks like it was made by someone gripping it tight – Jack can see the outline of fingers. The kid’s in rough shape, and he’s only known Jack a few days. So few days that they’ve been knocked right out of Jack’s skull.

He doesn’t know this kid, but another wave of guilt is threatening to pull him under. Jack’s supposed to look out for new kids. He’s supposed to look out for family.

Look where that got him.

“That’s not ideal,” the boy, Davey, says. There’s strain in his voice from more than just his physical state. “That’s – what are we going to do?”

He and Race both look down at Jack, where he’s seated a little unsteadily on the bed. Jack knows they’re hoping for leadership, but leadership is pretty far down the list of things he’s capable of doing right now. He’s currently feeling distinctly lucky he can remember his own name.

“I was really hopin’ you’d have the answer to that, Davey.” Race’s voice breaks halfway through the sentence. “We’s had guys knocked around pretty bad before, but he’s lost a lotta time.”

That’s true. Jack, himself, has been in this state before. But he’d never forgotten three whole days. It’s hard to know if this is just because he’s been hit in the head, or if he’s repressing something. One way or another, nothing’s coming back right now. No matter how hard he focuses on this new kid’s face – clearly Davey was important, if Race is looking at him for answers – he’s a stranger.

“Sorry,” Jack says, because he _is_ sorry, even though he knows it’s not his fault.

Davey looks at him again, biting his lip. He looks a little lost, but determined. “Don’t be sorry, Jack. Just – take care of yourself, alright? If you get your memory back, great, but – but I don’t want you getting anymore hurt otherwise. In the meantime –“

“You’re the strike leader,” Race says, a steadying hand on Davey’s back. “You got this?”

“No,” Davey replies, a slightly hysterical edge to it. “But I don’t really have a choice.” He frowns, tucking his hands deep into his pockets. “We’ve got to regroup.” He glances back at Jack. “See you around, Jackie.”

“See you around,” Jack says.

He and Race leave, and Jack relaxes back onto the bed. It’s Race’s, he thinks. He doesn’t think much else for a while, just drifts halfway into sleep. Sometime later, someone drops a newspaper onto his chest. Jack stirs, picking it up.

The New York Sun, morning edition. Front page has a huge photo, of all the Manhattan newsies with himself and Crutchie and that new boy front and center. A headline anybody could sell: _NEWSIES STOP THE WORLD._

He sits up, staring at the photo. Memories from the last few days are washing over him, slamming into his head like waves on a choppy day.

_I paid for twenty. You only gave me nineteen._

_You are the most_ impossible _boy –_

_Like Pulitzer don’t make enough already._

_I nominate Jack president!_

_This ain’t no game –_

_You’re gonna make the front page._

_If you look and see Brooklyn, then they’re with us._

_Once we’ve begun, if we stand as one –_

_About time you showed up! They’re slaughtering us!_

_Jack! Wait for me!_

Fuck. Jack’s on his feet as quickly as he can handle standing. He looks around – sure enough, as he’d expected, one of the other boys is reclining on a nearby bed. They don’t like anybody to feel babysat, but when somebody’s out as bad as Jack’s been today, somebody always hangs behind to make sure they’re alright.

“Albert!” Jack says, snapping his fingers a few times to make sure he has the redhead’s attention.

“You alright, Jack?” replies Albert, sitting up.

“Where’s Davey an’ them?” asks Jack. He holds up the newspaper. “I got a strike to lead.”


End file.
